The Trojan dames receive her, and recount
The woes of Priam's house, the streams of blood
That single stock has spent. Thee too, O, maid!
They weep; and thee, a royal spouse so late,
And royal parent stil'd; pride of the realm
Of glorious Asia; now a mournful lot
Amid the spoil; whom Ithacus would scorn
To own, great Hector hadst thou not brought forth:
The name of Hector scarce a master finds,
To claim his mother. She, the lifeless trunk
Embracing, which had held a soul so brave,
Tears pour'd; tears often had she pour'd before,
For country, husband, children—now for her
Those tears gush'd in the wound; lips press'd to lips;
And beat that breast which oft with grievous blows
Was punish'd. Sweeping 'mid the clotted blood
Her silver'd tresses; all these plaints, and more
She utter'd, as she still her bosom rent.
“My child, thy mother's last afflicting grief
“(For who is spar'd me?) low, my child, thou ly'st;
“And in thy wound, I all my wounds behold.
“Yes, lest a single remnant of my race
“Unslaughter'd should expire, thou too must bleed.
“A female, thee, safe from the sword I thought:
“A female, thee the sword has stretch'd in death.
“The same Achilles, ruiner of Troy,
“Bereaver of my offspring, all destroy'd,—
“Yes, all thy brethren, he, now murders thee!
“Yet when by Paris' and Apollo's darts
“He fell,—now, surely,—said I,—now no more
“Pelides need be dreaded! Yet ev'n now,
“Dreadful to me he proves. Inurned, rage
“His ashes 'gainst our hapless race; we feel
“Ev'n in his grave the anger of this foe.
“I fruitful only for Pelides prov'd.
“Low lies proud Iliüm, and the public woe,
“The heavy ruin ends: if ended yet:
“For Troy to me still stands; my sufferings still
“Roll endless on. I, late in power so high,
“Great in my children, in my husband great,
“Am now dragg'd forth in poverty; exil'd
“From all my children's tombs; a gift to please
“Penelopé; who, while my daily task
“She gives to Ithaca's proud dames, will taunt,
“And cry;—of Hector, the fam'd mother see!
“Lo! Priam's spouse!—And thou who sole wast spar'd
“To soothe maternal pangs, so many lost,
“Now bleed'st, atonement to an hostile shade:
“And funeral victims has my womb produc'd
“T' appease a foe. Why holds this stubborn heart?
“Why still delay I? What to me avails
“This loath'd, this long-protracted life? Why spin,
“O, cruel deities! the lengthen'd thread
“Of an old wretch, save that she yet may see
“More deaths? Who e'er could Priam happy deem,
“Iliüm o'erthrown? Yet happy was his death,
“Thy sacrifice, my daughter! not to see;
“At once of life and realm bereft. Yet sure
“O, royal maid! funereal rites await
“Thy last remains; thy corse will be inhum'd
“In ancestorial sepulchres. Ah, no!
“Such fortune smiles not on our house; the tears
“A mother can bestow, are all thy gifts;
“Sprinkled with foreign dust. All have I lost.
“Of the whole stock I could as parent boast,
“To tempt me now still longer to sustain
“This life, my Polydore alone is left;
“Once least of all my manly sons, erst given
“To Thracia's monarch's care, upon these shores.
“But why delay to cleanse that ghastly wound
“With water, and that face, with spouting blood
“Besmear'd.”—She ceas'd, and bent her tottering steps,
With torn and scatter'd locks down to the shore.
And as the hapless wretch—“O, Trojans!”—cry'd,
“An urn supply to draw the liquid waves;”—
The corse of Polydore, flung on the beach
She saw, pierc'd deep with wounds of Thracian steel.
Loud shriek'd the Trojan matrons; she by grief
Dumb-stricken stood. Affliction keen suppress'd
Her rising moans, and ready-springing tears:
Stupid, and like a rigid stone she stood.
Now on the earth her eyes are fixt; and now
To heaven her furious countenance she lifts:
Now dwells she on his face, now on the wounds
Her son receiv'd, and on the wounds the most:
And now her bosom with collected rage
Furiously burning, all on vengeance fierce
Her soul is bent, as still in power a queen.
As storms a lioness robb'd of her cub,
The track pursuing of her flying foe,
Whom yet she sees not: rage and grief were mixt
Just so in Hecuba; of her old years
Regardless, mindful of her ire alone.
She Polymnestor seeks, of the dire deed
The perpetrator, and his ear demands—
That more of gold, intended for her boy,
Her wish was to disclose. The Thracian king
Heard credulous; lur'd by his wonted love
Of gain, with her withdrew, and wily thus;
With coaxing words;—“quick, Hecuba!”—exclaim'd,
“Give for thy son the treasure. By the gods!
“I swear, all shall be his; what more thou giv'st,
“And what thou gav'st before.”—Him, speaking so,
And falsely swearing, savagely she view'd,
And her fierce bosom swell'd with double rage.
Then instant on him, by the captive dames
Fast held, she flies; in his perfidious face
Digs deep; her fingers (rage all strength supply'd)
Tear from their orbs his eyes; bury'd her hands,
Streaming with blood, where once the eyes had been;
Widening the wounds, for eyes no more remain'd.
Fir'd at their monarch's fate the Thracian crowd
With stones and darts t'attack the queen began.
The queen with harsher voice, as they pursue,
Bites at th' assailing stones, and, trying words,
Barkings her jaws produce. The place remains
Nam'd from the change. She, of her ancient woes
Long mindful, grieving still, Sithonia's fields
With howlings fill'd. Her fate with pity mov'd
Her fellow Trojans; and the hostile Greeks;
Nay, all the gods above; and all deny,
(Ev'n she, the sister-wife of mighty Jove)
That Hecuba so harsh a lot deserv'd.
Nor leisure now Aurora had to mourn
(Though strong their cause she favor'd) the sad fall,
And mournful fate of Hecuba, and Troy.
A nearer case, a more domestic woe,
The loss of Memnon, wrung the goddess' breast:
Whom on the Phrygian plains the mother saw
Beneath the weapon of Achilles sink.
She saw—that color which the blushing morn
Displays, grew pale, and heaven with clouds was hid.
Still could the parent not support the sight,
Plac'd on the funeral pyre his limbs, but straight
With locks dishevell'd, not disdain'd to sue
Prostrate before the knees of mighty Jove.
These words her tears assisting.—“Meanest I,
“Of those the golden heaven supports; to me
“The fewest temples through earth's space are rais'd:
“Yet still a goddess sues. Not to demand
“Temples, nor festal days, nor altars warm'd
“With blazing fires; yet if you but behold
“What I, a female, for you all atchieve,
“Bounding night's confines with new-springing light,
“Such boons you might consider but my due.
“But these are not my care. Aurora's mind
“Not now e'en honors merited demands.
“I come, my Memnon lost, who bravely fought,
“But vainly, in his uncle Priam's cause:
“And in his prime of youth (so will'd your fates)
“Fell by the stout Achilles. Lord supreme!
“Of all the deities, grant, I beseech
“To him some honor, solace of his death;
“Allay the smarting of a mother's wounds.”
Jove nodded, round the lofty funeral pile
Of Memnon, rose th' aspiring flames; black clouds
Of smoke the day obscur'd. So streams exhale
The rising mists which Phœbus' rays conceal.
Mount the black ashes, and conglob'd in one
They thicken in a body, and a shape
That body takes, and heat and light receives
From the bright flames. Its lightness gave it wings:
Much like a bird at first, and soon indeed
A bird, its pinions sounded. And a crowd
Of sister birds, their pinions sounded too;
Their origin the same. Thrice they surround
The pile, and thrice with noisy clang the air
Resounds; the fourth time all the troop divide:
Then two and two, they furious wage the war
On either side; fierce with their crooked claws
And beaks, they pounce their adversary's breast,
And tire his wings. Each kindred body falls
An offering to the ashes of the dead,
And prove their offspring from a valiant man.
These birds of sudden origin receive
Their name, Memnonides, from him whose limbs
Produc'd them. Oft as Sol through all his signs
Has run, the battle they renew again,
To perish at their parent-warrior's tomb.
Thus, while all others Dymas' daughter weep
In howling shape, Aurora still on griefs
Her own sad brooding, her maternal tears
Sprinkles in dew o'er all th' extent of earth.
Yet fate doom'd not with Iliüm's towers the fall
Of Iliüm's hopes. The Cythereän prince
Bore off his gods; and on his shoulders bore
A no less sacred, venerable load,
His sire. Of all his riches these preferr'd.
The pious hero, with his youthful son
Ascanius, from Antandros, o'er the main
Borne in the flying fleet, leaves far the shore
Of savage Thrace, still moisten'd with the blood
Of Polydore, and enters Phœbus' port;
Aided by currents, and by gentle gales,
With all his social crew. Anius receives
The exile, in his temple,—in his dome;
Where o'er the land he monarch rul'd; and where,
As Phœbus' priest, he tended due his rites:
The city, and the votive temples shew'd,
And shew'd two trees, once by Latona grasp'd
In bearing throes. The incense in the flames
Distributed, wine o'er the incense thrown,
The entrails of the offer'd bulls consum'd
As wont; the regal roof approach they all;
And high on tapestry reclin'd, partake
Of Ceres' gift, and Bacchus' flowing boon.
Then good Anchises, thus—“O chosen priest
“Of Phœbus! was I then deceiv'd? methought,
“As far as memory aids me to recal,
“When first mine eyes these lofty walls beheld,
“That twice two daughters, and a son were thine.”
Old Anius shook his head, begirt around
With snowy fillets, as in grief, he said:—
“No, mighty hero! not deceiv'd art thou,
“Me hast thou seen of five the parent; now
“Thou well-nigh childless see'st me: (such to man
“The varying change of sublunary things)
“For, ah! what can an absent son bestow
“To aid me, who, in Andros' isle now dwells,
“Where for his sire the realm and state he holds?
“Delius on him prophetic art bestow'd;
“And Bacchus, to my female offspring, gave
“A boon beyond all credit, and their hopes.
“For all whate'er, which felt my daughters' touch
“To corn, and wine, and olives, was transformed:
“A mighty treasure in themselves they held.
“But Agamemnon, Troy's destroyer learn'd
“This gift (think not but that your overthrow
“In some respect we shar'd,) by ruthless force,
“Tore them unwilling from their parent's arms;
“And stern commanded that the heavenly gift
“Should feed the Grecian fleet. Each as she can
“Escapes. Eubœä two attain, and two
“Fraternal Andros seek. The troops pursue
“And threaten warfare, if withheld the maids.
“Fraternal love was vanquish'd in his breast
“By fear, (that thou this terror mayst excuse,
“Reflect, Æneäs was not there, nor there
“Was Hector, Andros to defend, whose arms
“To the tenth year made Iliüm stand.) And now
“Chains were prepar'd their captive arms to bind.
“While yet unchain'd, those arms to heaven they rais'd,
“O father Bacchus!—crying—grant thy aid.—
“And aid the author of the gift bestow'd:
“If them to lose by an unheard-of mode
“Be aid bestowing. Then could I not know,
“Nor now relate the order of the change
“Which lost their shapes; the summit of my grief
“I know; with plumage were they cloth'd; transform'd
“To snowy doves, thy spouse's favor'd bird.”
With these, and tales like these, the feast was clos'd:
The board remov'd, all sought repose. With day
Arising, all Apollo's shrine attend;
Who bids that they their ancient mother seek,
And kindred shores. The king attends them, gives
His presents as they go. Anchises holds
A sceptre, while a quiver and a robe
Ascanius boasts; Æneäs holds a cup,
Erst from BϚtia's shores to Anius sent,
By Theban Therses. Therses sent the gift;
Sicilian Alcon form'd it, and engrav'd
A copious tale around. A town was there,
And seven wide gates appear'd: for name were these,
What town it was displaying. All without
Its walls were funeral trains, and tombs beheld;
And fires; and piles; and matrons, whose bare breasts,
And locks dishevell'd, shew'd their mournful woe.
Weeping the nymphs appear'd, and seem'd to wail
Their arid streams; the leafless trees were hard;
The goats were browsing on the naked rocks:
And, lo! amid the Theban town was seen
Orion's daughters: this her naked throat
Offering, with more than female courage; that
On the sharp weapon's point forth leaning, dy'd,
To save the people: round the town are borne
Their pompous funerals, they in splendor burn.
Then, lest the race should perish, spring two youths
From out their virgin ashes; which by fame
Are call'd Coronæ, and the pomp attend,
When their maternal ashes are interr'd.
Thus far the images on ancient brass
Were grav'n; the bordering summit of the cup
In gold acanthus rough appear'd. Nor gave
The Trojans gifts less worthy than they took.
To hold his incense, they a vase present
The royal priest; a goblet, and a crown,
Shining with gold, and bright with sparkling gems.
Thence, mindful that the Trojan race first sprung
From Teucer's blood, tow'rd Crete their course they bend:
But long Jove's native clime they could not bear.
The hundred-city'd isle now left behind,
Ausonia's port they hope to gain. Rough swell
The wintry storms, and toss them on the main;
And in the port of faithless Strophades
Receiv'd, the wing'd Aëllo scares them far.
Now had they sail'd beyond Dulichium's bay;
Samos; and Ithaca, Neritus' soil;
The realms Ulysses, so perfidious, sway'd:
And saw Ambracia, for the strife of gods
Renown'd, and stone to which the judge was chang'd;
Now as Apollo's Actium far more fam'd:
And saw Dodona's land with vocal groves;
And deep Chaonia's bay, where vain-urg'd flames
Molossus' sons, on new-sprung pinions 'scap'd.
Phæäcia's neighbouring country, planted thick
With grateful apples, now they reach; from thence
Epirus and Buthrotus, by the seer
Of Iliüm govern'd, image true of Troy.
Thence of the future certain, full of faith,
In all that Helenus of fate them told,
Sicilia's isle they enter, which extends
Midst of the waves its promontories three.
Pachymos, tow'rd the showery south is plac'd;
And Zephyr soft on Lilybæum blows:
But 'gainst the Arctic bear that shuns the sea,
And Boreas' rugged storms, Pelorus looks.
By this the Trojans steer; urg'd by their oars,
And favoring tide, by night on Zanclé's beach
The fleet is moor'd. Here Scylla on the right;
Charybdis, restless, on the left alarms.
This sucks the destin'd ships beneath the waves,
And whirls them up again: fierce dogs surround
The other's sable belly, while she bears
A virgin's face; and, if what poets tell
Be feign'd not all, she had a virgin been.
Her many wooers sought; these all repuls'd,
She join'd the ocean nymphs; by ocean's nymphs
Much favor'd was the maid; and told the loves
Of all the baffled youths. Her, while she gave
Her locks to comb, thus Galatea fair,
Bespoke, but first suppress'd a rising sigh.
“'Tis true, O maid! a gentle race thee seeks,
“Whom safely, as thou dost, thou may'st deny:
“But I, whose sire is Nereus; who was born
“Of blue-hair'd Doris; who am potent too
“In crowds of sisters, refuge only found
“From the fierce Cyclops' love, in my own waves.”
Tears chok'd her utterance here; which when the maid
Had wip'd with marble fingers, and had sooth'd
The goddess.—“Dearest Galatea! speak;
“Nor from thy friend this cause of grief conceal:
“Faithful am I to thee.” The goddess yields,
And to Cratæis' daughter, thus replies.